


The Fade

by jujus_writing_corner



Series: Whumptober 2019 [3]
Category: Real Person Fiction, Youtube RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Whumptober 2019, death mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 18:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20878826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujus_writing_corner/pseuds/jujus_writing_corner
Summary: Fading effects every figment differently. When Bim was a few days old and almost forgotten, this is how it happened to him.Whumptober Day 3: Delirium





	The Fade

**Author's Note:**

> This one's sad, y'all.
> 
> Tagging was weird, because there's non-detailed mentions of death and the implication that Bim is dying, but he doesn't? This happens in the past, so like, word of god, Bim lives. Hopefully the tags I used were enough.
> 
> Enjoy!

“He sure wears out quick, doesn’t he, Doc?” Wilford asks, wiggling his moustache with thought. “He was perky when he got here.”

“Wilford, he’s _fading,_” Dr. Iplier groans, not for the first time. “Of course he got tired fast; he’s sick, to put it lightly.”

Wilford blinks, brows furrowed.

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

“What does that even…?” Dr. Iplier asks.

“It means exactly what I said,” Wilford says, with dignity.

Dr. Iplier sighs. It doesn’t seem to matter how many egos they lose, Wilford can’t figure out that fading means _fading,_ it means dying and staying dead. Dr. Iplier doubts that’ll ever happen to Wilford; he’s so massively popular that not even the many reckless deaths he’s experienced could keep him gone for long. But most of the egos aren’t that lucky.

The ego wrapped in a blanket on Dr. Iplier’s armchair is one such unlucky ego.

Bim Trimmer only just appeared a few days ago, only just found the others this morning. He hasn’t even met everyone yet; just Dr. Iplier and Wilford. He and Wilford seemed to hit it off, but apparently not enough for Wilford to show much sympathy when he started flickering and getting weaker as the day sank from morning to late afternoon.

“Hey, wh–” Bim starts, coughing a little, “Who’s th…the pink guy again?”

“Wilford Warfstache, of course!” Wilford shouts, indignant. “How do you just forget _me_ of all people??” He points to himself, wiggling his moustache for emphasis.

“Again, Wilford, he’s sick,” Dr. Iplier scolds, tucking the blanket closer under Bim’s chin. “He barely knows where he is right now, much less who you are.”

The armchair is too short for him to lay down all the way; Bim’s posture is more of a deep, leaned-back slouch, bundled in the blanket like a bag on the end of a hobo stick. But the armchair is more comfortable than the sofa and cleaner than Dr. Iplier’s bed, so it’s the best Dr. Iplier can do without driving him to the city and sneaking him into the hospital he works at.

“Anddd…” Bim squints at Dr. Iplier, wincing through a flicker that nearly makes him disappear. “Wus your name again?”

“Dr. Iplier,” Dr. Iplier says, still gentle, trying for a reassuring smile.

“Oh.” Bim’s eyelids flutter. “I have…rehearsal t’morrow.”

“Really?” Wilford asks, perking up a bit. Dr. Iplier, for his part, tries not to look at Bim’s timer, already at ten hours and continuing to go down.

“Mmhmmm.” Bim coughs again. “Maybe more…people…”

“What?” Wilford asks.

“You…” Bim points to Dr. Iplier. “‘n…Wilbur…?” 

“Wilford!” Wilford yells, annoyed again.

“Winston…maybe you both can come…”

“On your show?” Dr. Iplier prompts, mostly to keep a red-faced Wilford from yelling again.

Bim’s eyes close for several long moments. When he opens them again, they’re clouded with tears.

“Doc, ‘m I gonna die?” he whispers.

Dr. Iplier’s tongue catches in his mouth for a long moment. Even Wilford seems taken aback.

“Bim…” Dr. Iplier murmurs.

He hates this. He hates watching egos die. He hates watching anyone die, but it hurts twice as much when it’s an ego, when it’s _family_. The Author chides him for that attitude whenever an ego goes.

_“You can't keep thinking about it like that, baby,”_ he always says, I-told-you-so edging his voice as he wipes Dr. Iplier’s tears. _“You’ll only break your own heart.”_

He’s right, of course he’s right, but how else can Dr. Iplier think of the other egos?

And Bim, from what little time Dr. Iplier got to spend with him before his condition started spiraling, seems like a great addition to the group. As arrogant as Wilford, as smarmy as Dark, but sweet like King and sharp-witted like Author.

Now, though, he’s only barely present, only barely real, as his body continues to flicker in and out of existence. His time might still be blue, still have the potential to change, but there’s only ten hours left for change to happen.

“I jus’ got here,” Bim whines, a tear escaping down his cheek. “They’re already forgetting me.”

“I know,” Dr. Iplier says, achingly soft, reaching out to thumb away the tear. “It’s not fair. But you might still get better.” He smiles. “I can tell it’s not over yet.”

“Exactly!” Wilford puts in. “You’re a fine chap, Bim. There’s no way the fans can’t see it!”

“Y’think?” Bim asks, followed by a cough.

“Of course!” Wilford leans in conspiratorially. “After you’ve been here a while, you’ll learn that I’m always right.”

Dr. Iplier rolls his eyes, but the line gets a giggle out of Bim, so Dr. Iplier decides to find the humor in it. But the giggle is followed by even more coughing, until Dr. Iplier starts rubbing Bim’s back through the blanket.

“Easy, bud,” he soothes, “How about I get you some water?”

“Y-Yeah,” Bim manages, shivering.

“Watch him for a minute,” Dr. Iplier tells Wilford before going to the kitchen.

He’s back barely a couple minutes later with a glass of water and a plastic straw, but Bim stares at the glass in his hand without comprehension.

“Why’d you get water?” Bim asks.

“I offered to get you some a bit ago,” Dr. Iplier tells him, patient, “And you said you wanted some.”

“That _just_ happened, how–” Wilford scoffs, bewildered, cut off by Dr. Iplier’s icy glare.

“Oh.” Bim says. His eyes close for a moment, then open again. “I don’t wan’ any.”

Wilford grumbles under his breath.

“You need it, though,” Dr. Iplier says gently, “You’ve been coughing a lot, this’ll help your throat. You don’t have to drink it all.”

“O…okay,” Bim says. There’s a dazed, fluttery quality to his voice, the kind that Dr. Iplier’s only ever heard in the voices of elderly dementia patients in the midst of an episode. It sounds so bizarre coming from the mouth of Bim, a young man, a three-day-old figment, a baby ego.

Still, Dr. Iplier approaches him with the water, holding the glass in front of him and helping him get the straw into his mouth. Fortunately, even though Bim forgot he wanted water, his body didn’t, and he drinks steadily. Dr. Iplier expects Wilford to make a comment about Bim needing a straw, but he’s curiously silent. Dr. Iplier glances at him briefly to see the expression on his face, but it’s hard to decipher.

When the glass is empty, Dr. Iplier sets it on the coffee table and Bim sighs and snuggles deeper into the blanket.

“You gonna go to sleep?” Dr. Iplier asks, hoping the answer is yes. It’d be a kindness from the universe to let Bim sleep through his fading.

“Mm,” Bim mumbles. His eyes are half-open. He looks like he wants something.

“What’s up, Bim?” Dr. Iplier asks, walking over to him.

Bim doesn’t say anything, just grabs Dr. Iplier’s arm and pulls. Dr. Iplier stifles a yelp as he stumbles onto the armchair, squished against Bim’s side. It seems to be what Bim was going for, though, as he leans into Dr. Iplier’s chest and sighs again.

“Oh,” Dr. Iplier says. Wilford snorts – the first sound he’s made in a few minutes now – and Dr. Iplier ignores him to stroke Bim’s hair. Bim worms one hand out from beneath the blanket to grab at Dr. Iplier’s free hand, and Dr. Iplier lets him. Bim frowns.

“Cold,” he says.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Dr. Iplier replies, “I’m not a very good cuddle partner, unfortunately.”

There’s a pause.

“I am, though!” Wilford suddenly exclaims. “I give excellent hugs, just ask Darky!”

Dr. Iplier snorts. Dark looks fit to murder every time Wilford hugs him, it’s a miracle he hasn’t killed him for it by now. But Dr. Iplier’s surprised when Wilford flounces over to the armchair to sit at Bim’s other side. The trio are sufficiently squished, but somehow they fit without anyone losing circulation. Bim adjusts to lay between them, in the middle of Dr. Iplier’s care and Wilford’s warmth. Eventually he dozes off, letting out quiet, snuffly snores as his body continues to flicker in and out of reality.

“I had stuff I was gonna do today…” Wilford grumbles.

“If you leave you’ll wake him up,” Dr. Iplier retorts, “And if you wake him up, I swear I will break my hippocratic oath to kill you in your sleep.”

Wilford stops grumbling at that, and he and Dr. Iplier continue to watch Bim sleep between them.

“Is he really gonna die?” Wilford asks. “I mean, what I said before…he’s really not a bad kid.”

It’s the nicest thing Dr. Iplier’s ever heard Wilford say about a baby ego. He wishes he had something reassuring to say in return.

“Most likely,” he says instead, “His time isn’t red yet, but once it gets this bad…I’ve never seen anyone bounce back.”

Wilford frowns and looks back down at Bim. Dr. Iplier looks at him, too, at his trembling body smothered in a blanket, at his hands gripping the blanket’s edge, at his glasses askew from his cheek pressing into Dr. Iplier’s chest. Despite his symptoms, he looks peaceful. He isn’t scared or sad like this. The sun begins to go down as the day moves into evening, and Dr. Iplier hopes Bim’ll stay asleep until his clock runs out and die without pain.

But Bim wakes up after an hour of sleep, stirring and lifting his head to blink blearily at Dr. Iplier. Dr. Iplier offers him a gentle smile as his eyes clear. But before he can say anything, Bim’s eyes suddenly go hard with anger, and his hands dart out to grab Dr. Iplier by his shirt collar and yank him closer.

“Don’t just sit here and let me die, you son of a bitch,” he gasps, like he can hardly speak for rage.

Dr. Iplier’s heart starts drumming, and he can’t make his mouth move. He’s not sure what he would say if he could. Wilford looks at him, eyes wide. Bim rears one hand back like he intends to throw a punch, and that seems to jolt Wilford into action.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Bim’s wrist.

Bim tugs but doesn’t have a hope of breaking out of Wilford’s strong grip, and he looks back at him with furrowed brows. Dr. Iplier can feel Bim’s grip on his shirt loosen, and his fisted hand relaxes in Wilford’s grip. He looks back to Dr. Iplier, blinking as his eyes cloud over.

“Wus your name again?” he asks.

Dr. Iplier bites his lip so he doesn’t sob. He glances over Bim’s shoulder at Wilford, who looks like he might cry, too. He releases Bim’s hand like he regrets grabbing it in the first place. Dr. Iplier looks away to Bim’s time. There’s still nine hours to go. Dr. Iplier schools his expression back into a placid smile to answer Bim’s question.

It’s going to be a long night.


End file.
